Darkbloom
Storm King of Superheroes
The forest was alive with chaos—shouts of men, the clang of steel, and the crackle of fire. Lightbloom pressed himself against a tree trunk, his heart pounding as he peered into the clearing ahead. The scene was grim.
A massive figure lay bound, its limbs wrapped in heavy chains and its wings pinned to the earth with crude iron stakes. Surrounding it were hunters, their weapons glinting cruelly in the firelight. The creature thrashed weakly, letting out a low growl that reverberated through the clearing.
Lightbloom gripped his staff tightly, his resolve hardening. The raw magic emanating from the creature was ancient, unyielding—a reminder of a time before men and elves shaped the world. To see such a being restrained and brutalized was an affront to all he held sacred.
One of the hunters, a burly man with a scarred face, raised a jagged blade high. “Hold it still!” he barked to the others.
Lightbloom stepped forward before the blade could fall. A radiant burst of light erupted from his staff, throwing the hunters into disarray.
“Release it!” Lightbloom commanded, his voice echoing through the clearing. “Or you’ll face me.”
The scarred hunter turned, his eyes narrowing. “An elf? What’s this, then? Some hero come to save the day?” He sneered, gesturing to his comrades. “Take him!”
Two hunters lunged toward Lightbloom, weapons raised. With a fluid motion, he spun his staff, unleashing a blinding arc of light that forced them back. Vines erupted from the earth at his command, coiling around their legs and dragging them down.
The scarred hunter growled in frustration. “Kill him already!”
Another hunter raised a crossbow and fired. Lightbloom deflected the bolt with a shimmering shield, stepping closer to the chained creature. “You’ve lost,” he said, his voice firm. “Leave now, and I’ll let you live.”
“You think you can stop all of us?” the scarred man snarled, though the fear in his voice betrayed him.
Lightbloom answered with a wave of magic, the ground beneath the hunters erupting in radiant bursts that sent them scattering. Panic took hold, and the remaining men began to retreat, dragging their injured comrades into the shadows of the forest.
When the last of them had vanished, Lightbloom turned to the bound creature. He approached slowly, his magic softening the chains until they fell away. His every movement was careful, deliberate.
“You’re free now,” he murmured, though he wasn’t sure if the creature understood him. His focus shifted to its wounds, and he knelt beside it, his hands glowing faintly as he began to heal what he could.
For now, his mission was clear—restoration, not words.
Weaversong
A massive figure lay bound, its limbs wrapped in heavy chains and its wings pinned to the earth with crude iron stakes. Surrounding it were hunters, their weapons glinting cruelly in the firelight. The creature thrashed weakly, letting out a low growl that reverberated through the clearing.
Lightbloom gripped his staff tightly, his resolve hardening. The raw magic emanating from the creature was ancient, unyielding—a reminder of a time before men and elves shaped the world. To see such a being restrained and brutalized was an affront to all he held sacred.
One of the hunters, a burly man with a scarred face, raised a jagged blade high. “Hold it still!” he barked to the others.
Lightbloom stepped forward before the blade could fall. A radiant burst of light erupted from his staff, throwing the hunters into disarray.
“Release it!” Lightbloom commanded, his voice echoing through the clearing. “Or you’ll face me.”
The scarred hunter turned, his eyes narrowing. “An elf? What’s this, then? Some hero come to save the day?” He sneered, gesturing to his comrades. “Take him!”
Two hunters lunged toward Lightbloom, weapons raised. With a fluid motion, he spun his staff, unleashing a blinding arc of light that forced them back. Vines erupted from the earth at his command, coiling around their legs and dragging them down.
The scarred hunter growled in frustration. “Kill him already!”
Another hunter raised a crossbow and fired. Lightbloom deflected the bolt with a shimmering shield, stepping closer to the chained creature. “You’ve lost,” he said, his voice firm. “Leave now, and I’ll let you live.”
“You think you can stop all of us?” the scarred man snarled, though the fear in his voice betrayed him.
Lightbloom answered with a wave of magic, the ground beneath the hunters erupting in radiant bursts that sent them scattering. Panic took hold, and the remaining men began to retreat, dragging their injured comrades into the shadows of the forest.
When the last of them had vanished, Lightbloom turned to the bound creature. He approached slowly, his magic softening the chains until they fell away. His every movement was careful, deliberate.
“You’re free now,” he murmured, though he wasn’t sure if the creature understood him. His focus shifted to its wounds, and he knelt beside it, his hands glowing faintly as he began to heal what he could.
For now, his mission was clear—restoration, not words.
Weaversong
